


The Devotional

by thewhitestag



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman: Streets of Gotham, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewhitestag/pseuds/thewhitestag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The chiroptophobia has mutated. Colin will never forget his Batman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devotional

Thursday night, 8:36 pm. There will be another twelve minutes before Damian retires from his scheduled sparring match, likely longer; Nightwing has decided to visit the manor and Damian will undoubtedly do all he can to monopolize his former mentor's time.

Colin doesn't mind, even told Alfred that he could wait in Damian's bedroom, so please don't rush him if he wants to spend time with his big brother. The butler hadn't entirely fallen for his little Dickensian urchin routine—and the sharp old man certainly would know that real orphans _never_ flaunt their innocence, their kindness, because it's always the first thing that gets stolen—but he had complied with a bow, even as an eyebrow remained raised in bemusement.

Colin had ghosted through the halls, maintaining a level of stealth that could put some heroes to shame. Practically invisible. Funny to think of it as a skill though, when he'd grown up with it as a way of living.

Second Thursday of the month means laundry day tomorrow, means costumes deposited for maintenance, and five weeks of obsessive planning gives Colin all the opportunity he needs. The schedule of the manor moves without variation—at least, no variations Colin has not intended. And perhaps he oughtn't be hiding in linen closets and leaping beneath side tables and measuring the sound of steady footsteps, but if he can't take what he wants, at least he will have this.

He returns to Damian's bedroom with seven minutes to spare.

There are clearly a number of attached and interwoven components, thin metallic plates and kevlar, but the bulk of it is simply leather. One of Batman's gauntlets. Colin slides it up his body, brings it to his face, taking in the scent of it. Beyond the musk of treated skin, there is gun powder and motor oil. Tobacco. And towards the open end of the glove, there is the smell of Batman's sweat, and Colin's eyes roll back into his head as he breathes it in.

He moves to the bed; time is running out and Damian will be coming soon. He eases one hand into the gauntlet, and with the other, pops open the button of his jeans, slides down the zipper.

Heavy use has left a webwork of creases, soft furrows in the leather. But Colin's knuckles don't match up to the worked-in joints. His much smaller hand does not flex the same way, does not stretch the same way as Bruce's would have. As the boy maneuvers the gauntlet, testing out the pliability of the fingers, the material creaks in the places that the Batman has not broken them in.

Colin can still feel the heat from Batman's skin, insulated on the inside surface. It is like the cooling ember that remains beneath the ashes and he scrambles to stoke it back to a flame. He takes the warmth into his palm and lets it grow with friction, lets it combine with the warmth of his bare skin, until they meld together.

_Bruce Wayne, Philanthropist_. That is precisely the sort of man Colin has come to hate. Always throwing around their money for solutions. Rubbing their fresh-printed greenbacks against your skin, don't even notice when the crisp edges cut you, think you're cries are in elation, gratitude.

And well, Colin thinks to himself, at least this is one man you have a true reason to thank.

The memory still gets him shaking, but the chiroptophobia has morphed, transformed, mutated. Now it leaves his body trembling with the ecstasy of saints, convulsions like brushes against the divine. And the Bat that once lurked in his nightmares has traveled, creeping down the length of Colin's dreams, settling into the secret space that lies between his legs. And isn't that just perfect, because bats so love where it is dark and damp.

_Bruce Wayne, Philanthropist_. The kind of man who lectures from the political pulpit, decries the sad lives of children like Colin. Says he will be the voice for the people, and puts his words in the mouths of the poor instead of food. Sees the downtrodden and thinks it is simply their nature to suffer. Reaches out and feels spiteful when he cannot find anyone soft enough to coddle. These are the men who stud their cufflinks with diamonds, speaking with the authority of prophets, but without their humility. Because who would punish them? Who should they fear? They believe they are gods in men, and accordingly, worship themselves.

The springs of the mattress creak as Colin's hips piston towards the finish line. Colin can still remember the way Batman's fists slammed into his ribs. Fierce, but not without mercy. Remembers waking up to see his body returned to normal, but still too weak, too bruised to move. Strong arms cradling him as they flew. Cheek resting against the kevlar armor on the chest. Cold night air. The streets so far below. And then his eyes falling on the bat symbol before succumbing to sleep again. He calls up these memories as he slides himself against the leather.

Contempt burns friction against arousal; devotion slips and falls backwards into obsession.

Perhaps Bruce Wayne is of the same mind as the other self-worshipping men. He may fight in the streets at night, but the manor remains a world apart. The cape and cowl do not promise understanding. Perhaps he sees the masses, sees sad little orphan boys, and thinks they are wretched, and voiceless. But Colin plans to demonstrate otherwise.

And one day, Batman will know just how loud an orphan boy can be.


End file.
